The sun was rising, and people were waking up. So was the sheriff, Malcolm Lyttle. He was taking his usual morning walk, when he saw the stranger approaching. He was hunched atop a black stallion, several pistols and rifles adorning his belt and saddle. He was wearing dirty civilian clothes, but he recognized the saddle as military.

He stepped in front of the horse as it entered town. For a moment, he thought the great stallion was going to trample him, but with a gentle tug the stranger stopped it a few feet from Lyttle. Lyttle looked at the man beneath the wide-brimmed hat. As the stranger raised his glance, Lyttle saw a pair of piercing blue eyes, a hint of ice in them.

"Hello stranger," Lyttle said jovially, "welcome to Pueblo. I am sheriff Malcolm Lyttle." The stranger replied:
"Hello, sheriff. May I pass?" Lyttle didn't move.
"I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't mention it." Lyttle's hand moved closer to his gun, as he replied.
"I don't mean to offend you, but I have to keep the safety of the people in this town in mind. As such, I can't let you pass unless you give me a name."

The stranger seemed to consider it. Then he smiled.

"Very well, sheriff. My name is William Black, but folks tend to call me Black Bill."

Lyttle looked at Black Bill, and noticed that the ice was gone from the eyes. He relaxed a little. Then he moved aside.

Once again, Lyttle was doing his daily patrol. The town was still asleep; only Lyttle and one other was awake at this hour. The other was Black Bill, who was enjoying the sunrise on the saloon porch. Lyttle and Bill had fast become friends, and Bill sometimes helped out when Lyttle needed it.

Bill always wore three guns; a Colt Dragoon in a right-hand front holster, and a LeMat revolver and a Tranter in hip holsters. Yet Lyttle had never seen him use them.

A dustcloud appeared in the horizon. Lyttle studied, wondering what might be approaching...

"No!" George Montnoir Senior was looking at his youngest son, who was staring defiantly back. "You are much too young, William. You're only 17."
"But Papa, George Junior and Francis has already enlisted."
"George Junior and Francis are old enough. You aren't."
"I'm seventeen. Broderick is only 16, and he joined up a week ago."

George Senior studied his son. Of his three sons, William was the most like him when he had been young; rash and confident, sometimes overly so. He lowered his voice, so the nearby slaves couldn't hear him.

"William, I don't want to lose all my sons to those Damn Yankees. War is hell, and I may never see your brothers again. I couldn't stand losing you too - nor could your mother." William smiled his confident smile.
"Papa, you'll see me again. No damn Yankee is going to get me." George Senior was about to object, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to find his wife standing beside him.
"George, let him go. He's going no matter what you say, just like you did in '48."

George Senior had left his home, sixteen year old, to join the Army and had fought in the Mexican War of 1846-48, against his father's wishes. George nodded.

"You're right. William, you may leave in the morning with our blessing."

* * * * *

William had saddled Fury, his big black stallion, and loaded his belongings onto the saddle. He was about to mount Fury, when his father appeared next to him. George Senior handed his son a small blanket.

"Son, take this." William unwrapped it to find his father's Colt Dragoon.
"Papa, I can't take this."
"If you're going to kill Yankees, you'll need it more than me."

James Richard Reynolds, or Jim to his friends, sat on the horse as it trotted along the road. It had been two days of hard riding toward Peublo. The trail was starting to get hold in the may heat. Sweat beaded on his brow and he lifted a hand to adjust his hat to shade him more readily from the newly rising sun. The man heard a small thud along the flank of the horse. The animal reared up bellowing its scream in pain before falling over. It was only after hitting the ground that Jim could see the cause for the fall, an arrow stuck straight into the dying horse. Jim moved to go for his pistol, but the horse had pinned his leg to the ground blocking his reach to his weapon.

Screaming like a banshee the native darted on horseback towards him brandishing a stick with rock tied to it as a sort of club. The Comanche struck him in the head with the weapon. Blood dripped from the mans head. The wild Indian screamed and hollered as he hopped on his feet in some sort of ritual dance. James reached for his feet to try and grab and trip the man but was kicked away. The Comanche continued his hollering. Grabbing the Indians feet once again the man jumped and tackled him to the ground. The two tumbled amongst one another the native grabbing James by the throat choking the life from him slowly.

Reynolds searched with his hand for something and found a rock. Lifting his arm up he bashed the Comanche’s head with the rock. The grip loosened on his throat. Another strike, and then another followed. He slammed the rock into the man’s head until it was an unrecognizable hunk of meat. Jim pulled himself along the ground before passing out.

He awoke at midday when the sun had reached the zenith. Standing he noticed his horse was dead on the ground. Pulling the saddle from the dead horse and started to place it on the Comanche’s who obediently stayed nearby for loss of a master.

It took the rest of the day to reach the town. Hunched over the horse Jim could feel exhaustion setting in. He spurred the horse into action kicking up a dust trail behind him as he hurried toward civilization. Reaching the town he stopped the horse and glanced around.

“Mighty nice horse you got there.”

Turning James saw the source of the voice. “An in’jun tried to bushwhack me.” James replied weary from the road and the day’s adventure. John Daly has established himself a week earlier sallying forth with a wagon of goods to be sold. The start up money had been Reynolds who wrote ahead to a family friend to buy a plot of land. Now only a tent stood in the lot holding their claim until he arrived and built the storefront. It was a nice corner lot, primed and ready with plenty of foot traffic. James was a bit shaky remembering the fight. “He just came on me, I don’t reckon I wronged him.”

“The three red hands on the pony’s flank are three men killed hand to hand. The red circle is a kill on horseback. The white lines on the pony’s legs are the times he counted coup. A show of bravery to hit a man with a stick or a club to either kills him or just for sport, that’s counting coup. That’s why I reckon he came at you like he did.” Daly remarked examining the Comanche horse.

“If his happy hunting ground is anything like our heaven, I’ll see him there.” Reynolds replied shaking a bit wobbly on his knees. “I reckon you’ll need t’fetch a doctor.” The man off the horse to the ground.